


One hundred and thirty nine years old

by TheKats



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, I have no power here, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, This story is out of control, Vampires, Well - Freeform, i guess, sort of, that's basically it, that's the whole story, very own take on vampires, you'll get it when you read it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-18 13:45:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7317622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheKats/pseuds/TheKats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I must admit, you did good on hiding from me. Then again, I had little time researching you before our very first conversation and finding this piece of information required a deeper digging. I confess to not knowing much about your kind. I am aware you exist and how many of you live in this country, I keep the number in check. As for you motivation, I remain clueless, albeit, I have never had the chance to really talk to one of you in such kind. I hold no interest in doing so.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	One hundred and thirty nine years old

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this is ridiculous..  
> I initially wanted to write a 20 pages long one-shot, but I'm on page 17 now and not nearly at the end yet, so I'm breaking it up into two chapters..
> 
> I never liked the common "rules" on vampires and while Supernatural broke that up a bit in the eye of the public, I still don't really like it.  
> SO! Here's my very own interpretation of the suckers- er, /blood/ suckers.
> 
> If Sherlock and John seem a little ooc, that's actually part of what's happening. You might get it by the end of the chapter. I didn't expect it to be that extreme myself, though.. These two always steal my stories and just make them their own..
> 
> Hope you like it :)

“I must admit, you did good on hiding from me, John. Then again, I had little time researching you before our very first conversation and finding this piece of information required a deeper digging.”

 

“So, now you do know. What do you want Mycroft?” John watched the tall man as he hung the black umbrella over his forearm by the handle. Their voices rang in echoes through the silent hall. Drama seemed to earn the Holmes' trademark.  
  
The elder Holmes brother looked down at him, bright blue eyes over the crooked nose. John had long understood that Mycroft had a certain fondness for him. Just like Sherlock, he seemed to enjoy his wits, thickheadedness and, most of all, his loyalty towards the younger one.  
But there was none of that in Mycroft's eyes now. They were the cold, hard gaze he had experienced in their first encounter; the distrust and expectancy of the wrong move. He was every bit a chess player and John, while not strategic, a worthy opponent.  
“What do you want from my brother?”  
  
Were John not who he was, he would have picked at Mycroft for that mistake. Speaking specifically of his brother instead of just naming his name, Mycroft had shown weakness, although, John expected, that was just what the pale man had wanted. If John made use of this, he would prove the suspicion, that brought them together here, right. “I can guarantee you that I have no desire in getting close to Sherlock in that way.”  
  
“I confess to not knowing much about your kind. I am aware you exist and how many of you live in this country, I keep the number in check. As for you motivation, I remain clueless, albeit, I have never had the chance to really talk to one of you in such kind. I hold no interest in doing so.”  
  
“I pose no threat to your brother and I never intended to do so. If I did, he'd be long dead.” John stood his ground. He was aware that Mycroft had the power to have him killed just for being who he was, if only he wished to. He also knew, that trying to soft-soap Mycroft would be exactly what could get him killed.  
  


It wasn't like him anyway.  
“Why him?”  
  
John shook his head with a sigh. It was the same question each time. “Please, Mycroft, I'm just a simple doctor. I just want to live.”  
  
“With Sherlock.”  
  
“As it happens, yes. It's nice. It's affordable. He isn't my first flat share.”  
  
“No.” Mycroft said, the word staying in the air like a deep bemusement. “Where is your.. family?”  
  
A quick, almost amused, exhale announced John's answer. “Surely you know.”  
  
And there John had him. Mycroft's eyes softened ever so slightly into the gaze he'd come to know as the Holmes' fondness. “Indeed I do.”  
  
“Mh. You know my record. Sherlock will come to no harm through me.”  
  
“I will take your word for it.”  
  
The arrogance in those words still rang through John's head. It had been only a month after he'd got to know Mycroft Holmes and it was now another two months since. It always shocked him how well he'd settled in with Sherlock within just a few weeks and now he felt like there was nothing more natural. It was true that John had shared many flats and even more beds, but nothing had ever felt as easy as his friendship to Sherlock Holmes. Just their first night together had been a right spectacle, with a rush of Adrenalin that had John feel alive for the first time in a long while. Afghanistan had been nice – a suicide mission, but an adventure nonetheless. He'd planned to die there and he nearly had, only when he'd looked that prospect in the eye, he found his desire for death vanish very effectively. If you were “one of his kind” as Mycroft called them, death meant a part of yourself and, with the feeling of eternity on your shoulder, boredom came quick and was not lifted off your being quite that easily.  
With Sherlock, danger and death were like your clingy next door neighbours that were trying, desperately, to be your best friends. John had learned to welcome them with open arms.  
  
Unfortunately, excitement never came alone. The annoying reality was, that in between cases, John had nothing to do other than going out to Tesco to avoid going mad inside the flat, where his overly-bored flatmate was doing his best to drag John down into the dark abyss with him. His limb and shaking hand had previously made him made both physically and mentally unfit to work as a surgeon and while his hand still denied him the full potential of his abilities, the rest of him was ready to get a job. His bank account was also ready for him to get a job.  
It may not have been the best timing, but he'd found himself work as a physician right in the middle of a case that Sherlock was convinced was not a coincidence of a threat(?) colliding with a suicide, but actual, deliberate murder.  
It was the 23 of march when they got called. Well, Sherlock got called. Well, emailed. Sherlock got emailed. But John followed. Sherlock asked him to, and after fighting with darn technology, yet again, literally _anything_ was welcome to lighten up his mood. He'd not expected that the brunet's trip to the bank would be to get involved in a case of theft, smuggling and murder and, sad as it was for young Soo Lin Yao, John could only say that it'd been brilliant.  
Yes, he could have done without Sarah getting into this kind of trouble, but she'd gone with it. All of it. From Sherlock's rude behaviour to almost dying and she still wanted to see John.  
It was crazy how Sherlock had made John go from depressed, disabled, lonely man to confident, adventurous, employed and committed within three months. That's way more than what he could say of Ella. His therapist had gotten him next to nowhere and he was seriously thinking about quitting therapy. He still wasn't back to who he used to be, but he guessed that he'd never get there again anyway, and it was fine. He was fine right where he was.  
For once, he wasn't wondering what he'd be doing next year.  
  
Sarah and he did break up, though. He agreed that it was best for her. He didn't have enough time for her as it was with Sherlock and the Game they found themselves in so suddenly – he didn't want to actually have her die because of their relationship. They stayed friends and there were no harsh feelings between them, which, for the sake of their work together at the clinic, was very helpful.  
Sherlock was clever, and insensitive, as ever. He seemed to genuinely enjoy the tests he was given, without a care for the people whose lives were at risk. They were only the trophies, the confirmation of him giving the right answers, nothing more. Or were they? John wasn't so sure at times.  
Especially at the end, when the old woman became a murder victim. The long time she'd had to wait had driven her to give in to fear and, despite being warned, started describing. Sherlock went still, features carefully schooled, but John read it in his body and his silence. He read it in Sherlock's petulance afterwards: He'd passed the test, but lost the round nonetheless because he couldn't save her. He did care.  
  
And just how much he cared was to become clear to John at the pool.  
The look on Sherlock's face when John posed as the man behind the Game was so full of disbelief, hurt and betrayal, that it hurt John in return that Sherlock thought he'd actually be capable of doing these things. Seeing that look being replaced by pure worry as John revealed the bomb beneath the jacket was sort of comforting. Still, he couldn't help but wonder: would Sherlock be here if not for John's involvement?  
Moriarty made him say things. Things like “This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?” and “Gottle o' geer”, which was just pure sarcasm. John being the ventriloquist's doll.  
The most memorable and hardest thing Moriarty made John say was “Ever questioned him? Never weight his loyalty? Or is he really just a little pet?” John didn't know how Moriarty knew, but he knew where this was going. “Nice touch, this: the pool where little Carl died. I stopped him. I can stop John Watson, too. Stop his heart.”  
It was a wash of white noise through John's head. The smell of the chlorine and the rush of blood through his ears; he could practically taste the adrenalin in the air. The shouting woke him up again, drunk-like he heard Moriarty bellow “That's what people DO!” followed by a barely audible, quirky “some sooner, some later. Some of us would know.” with a not-so-subtle eye rolled at John.  
John just prayed and hoped Sherlock hadn't picked up on all of it.  
  
John was faced with disappointment when they were back in their flat. He was already on his way upstairs, quickly fleeing to retire to bed. Not only did he not want to talk about all of what had happened, but it had actually drained him. He was tired. But Sherlock never rested before his mind was at peace.  
“What did he mean when he asked me to question you?”  
  
John, hand on the banister, sighed deeply, not ready to stand right in the middle of the storm. “Can we do this tomorrow? I'm tired, I just want to sleep right now.”  
  
“What did he mean, John?” Sherlock asked more firmly. He had his arms crossed over his chest – an unusual pose for him and definitely one John didn't like on him.  
  
The doctor turned around to regard Sherlock with a pleading expression. “Why do you think I know?”  
  
“'Some die sooner, some later. Some of us would know'?”  
  
Sherlock's eyes were hard, distrust flashed up in them and John hated it. They were friends. Sherlock was the maddest and bloody well best friend John had ever had. He couldn't look into his eyes if they spoke to him like that. “Sherlock, please. Just drop it.”

 

“Answer me.” The detective's voice left no room for rejection.

 

John clicked his tongue and sighed again. He walked into the kitchen and began making tea. It was going to be a while and he needed something for the nerves. Either man's nerves. “I don't know how to tell you. You wouldn't believe me if I said anything.”  
  
Sherlock's next question sounded like genuine curiosity, like John was an interesting new specimen or a case rating 8. “Why-ever not?”  
  
“Because,” John dragged out the word as he turned around, leaving the kettle to boil the water behind him, “I don't think you're quite open to this sort of thing.”  
  
At this, Sherlock frowned at him as if he were a particularly stupid new specimen. As if he wanted to say “have you seen me?!”, but without actually uttering the words.  
  
John rolled his eyes and gnawed at the insides of his cheeks, followed by a swift lick of his lips. Just breaking it to Sherlock would be idiotic, chances were high he didn't even know the name and if he ever had, he'd probably deleted it because such 'fantasy' was useless to him. John had to somehow lead him there. “What Moriarty meant, is that some die sooner, some die later and some never seem to die.” Okay, maybe that had been a wrong choice because Sherlock's look was now utterly ridiculous on him. “I am.. not in my thirties. I am, in fact.. in my one-hundred-and-thirties. I was born in 1871.”  
  
John calmly looked up at Sherlock, even though his heart was racing right now. Sherlock just blinked back flatly at him for a good long while. “John, did you take any drugs?”the brunet asked, apparently entirely serious.  
  
“No, I did not.” John turned to pick up the boiling kettle and pour hot water into two mugs with tea bags in them.  
  
“Of course, that would explain your general incompetence with modern technology.” Sherlock remarked, taking on tea from him to put some sugar in it.  
  
“Are you ridiculing me?” John asked, feeling a sudden need for challenge overcome him.  
  
Sherlock gasped and put on his worst expression of exasperation on. “You think I'm mocking you?! Oh, no! John, I take it very seriously when you tell me you have lived through two world wars and only got damaged after a hundred years fighting in Afghanistan!” Sherlock would have laughed, John knew he would, only the unmoved features on the blond's face seemed to stop him. “Come on, John, this is pathetic. What kind of game is this? Are you taking the piss on me because I doubted you? Which, frankly, I did not even do.”  
  
John inclined his head, trying his best not to throttle the man for his arrogance. “Do I look to you like I am joking?”  
  
Sherlock chuckled, apparently having decided John was definitely playing a joke on him. “Alright, what are you then? Some sort of Frankenstein, exchanging your dying body parts? Because I have to tell you, for a human jigsaw puzzle, you look very well balanced.”  
  
“First of all, that's Frankenstein's creature and secondly, no. Just no. I'm a.. vampire.”  
  
“Sorry, what now?”  
  
“A vampire? Count Dracula? Twilight?” John offered. Sherlock looked back at him, expectant. “Well, they are lousy examples, I give you that, but at least they're cliché.”  
  
Sherlock shook his head. “No idea what you're talking about.” He took a sip of his tea.  
  
John sighed. He'd kind of expected that. “Well- just-... look.” he concluded, pulling back his lips to give Sherlock an unhindered view of his teeth. The brunet focused on them with both intrigue and nonchalance, only to spit out his sip of tea when said teeth quickly shot out to become two rows of long, very sharp-looking spikes. It was only the incisors and canines, but enough to have Sherlock clumsily splash more hot tea onto himself from his mug as he tried to dab away at his chin and lips.  
John immediately retrieved his teeth. They morphed back into the normal set Sherlock was accustomed to seeing in a human being. “Careful!” John's concerned voice rang through his ears and the mug was out of his hands before the trick played out in front of his eyes had even sunk in.  
  
As John approached to hand him a paper towel to clean himself with, Sherlock took a step backwards. “H-how did you do that?!”  
  
Dread settled within John. He hadn't expected Sherlock would react so strongly. “Calm down. It's just like I told you, I'm a vampire, we just.. have these.”  
Sherlock seemed to consider John for a moment, but apparently settled on the fact that that was precisely who he was; John. He took the paper towel and John grabbed a cloth, dampened it under the sink and knelt to clean the floor before Sherlock. It was just John. John with a surprising new skill. “Don't be alarmed. They are there to pierce human skin and create a controllable flow of blood to drink. I have never done that, however.” he got up again and simply tossed the cloth into sink with abandon. Looking up, he saw Sherlock still clasping the paper towel to his chin, although his expression was calmer now, still irritated, but calmer. “I'd say 'I'm sorry I never told you', but I'm not, so I won't. Please, I have an early shift tomorrow. Let's just sleep on this, calm down, it's been a turbulent day, and talk about this tomorrow, okay?”  
  
Sherlock merely nodded, still stunned. John vanished with a gentle 'good night' and Sherlock's eyes wandered over to where their teas sat next to each other, Sherlock's mug cleaned with water, John's entirely untouched.

 

 

When John came back from work the next day, Sherlock sat in his chair, staring at the entrance to their flat like a predator waiting for his prey to walk in. John stopped abruptly when he saw Sherlock sitting there like that, his eyes wandering around the room, searching for some plot to start a conversation with. “I see you are very eager to talk to me straight away.”  
  
“I did some research and I have questions.” Sherlock shot at him instantly.  
  
John flinched at the quick reply at first, but then sighed as the meaning sank in. “Please don't tell me you did your research on the internet...” He took off his jacket and shoes, waiting for Sherlock to speak again.  
  
“Some websites say only the canines are very sharp, other say there would be an entire set of teeth above the ordinary ones. Then again, with the first theory, some claim the canines would always be present in their outstanding length, while others are convinced they grow with a vampire's blood-lust. Then there's that. Almost all websites claim that vampires need to feast on human blood to survive, while others suggest that animal blood also works,” as Sherlock listed his findings in quick succession, John let himself fall into his own armchair, “and the bite is either deadly or converting the victim, which could otherwise happen by the vampire infusing their victim with their own blood-”

 

“Okay, stop! You know you could have just waited and asked me when I returned, right?” John requested and judging by Sherlock's expression, the man could not have waited. “Well, first of all, you've seen my fangs. The teeth just morph into shape when I demand it. It's true that human blood is very... enticing to us, but not for the sake of nutrition. It's more like a survival instinct. A vampire's blood can transport all vital nutrients through the body, but not the components of the immune defence system. They are still inside our bodies, but they cannot be transported, so they just die and are replaced without ever doing their duty. That means, that even the smallest illness can be lethal to us _unless_ we drink human blood. The fresh blood is capable of transporting everything through our bodies until it's used up by them. That doesn't just count for the immune system illnesses, but any healing process. Broken bones, open wounds. It can all be healed, but nearly always requires fresh blood. That's why we can smell and hear it rushing through bodies, so we have a natural desire to drink it and heal ourselves. It's a rather stupid thing about us.”  
  
“I've read a myth that the transformation is considered a rebirth that can heal any lethal wound or disease?” Sherlock inquired further, curious.  
  
John nodded. “Yes. Because our blood is free of anything that is immune system, it is a lot thinner and moves faster through the body. It's not quite clear how or what it is, but something about the right balance between human and vampire blood is capable of any healing process in record time. It can even cure cancer.” the doctor explained.  
  
Sherlock considered that. “Is that what makes vampires immortal?”  
  
“We're not immortal.” John negated. “Our life-span is just stretched out a lot. How long a life-expectancy a vampire has, depends on the age at which they became one. Someone born a vampire will live up to five hundred years. I was turned when I was forty, so almost exactly a hundred years ago. At my age, my total life-expectancy lies at about two hundred and fifty years. The turning, by the way, can be caused either way. It's not the saliva or the blood specifically that induce the turn, it's a poison that is contained in all bodily fluids, which is why one has to be careful in interacting with a human that one does not want to turn. Too much exposure will lead to it. However, the poison is more highly concentrated in the blood, so there is lees blood need for a turn to happen than saliva or... others.” John finished, looking to the side awkwardly.  
  
“I've read that sunlight can do a great many things to you.”  
  
“Ah, no. Sun does shit besides giving you an unpleasant burning sensation. It can be easily helped, though, simply by going through the pain and getting a tan. The darker pigmentation keeps the UV rays out and away from the sensitive lower layers.”  
  
“So, Afghanistan..”  
  
“..was basically just an eccentric sun-bath, yes.” John grinned.  
  
Sherlock smirked back a little, but his amusement quickly fell again. “I read,” Sherlock continued, effectively pulling John away from his memories, “you fear garlic and have no reflection?”  
  
“Well, you already know those aren't true. Also, we don't sleep in coffins. Well, most of us.”John added as an afterthought. “You know how people can be.”  
  
“Have you ever turned anyone?” Sherlock asked, curiously.  
  
The blond shook his head. “No. And I hope I never will accidentally. Such a long life.. People think it's fun, but the truth is, the older you get, the more sad and depressing life gets. I've lived through generations and, what can I say, people never learn.. You're the most excitement I've had in a hundred years.” he acknowledged, giving a tiny smile.  
  
Sherlock smiled back at him. There was a silent 'likewise' that no one heard but both knew it was there. “I guess that explains why you became a doctor. Staying healthy so you don't have to drink blood.”  
  
“Hm, that may have been part of the reason, yes. Do you believe me?”  
  
“I'm not entirely sure I can believe this, but the evidence of your teeth is a little.. hard to contradict. And all this detail.. You couldn't have thought it all up within a day.”  
  
“Hey..” John complained, grin on his face, shaking his head at the rudeness.  
  
“I think I have little choice other than to believe you.”  
  
And just like that, they went on with their life. If ever John thought Sherlock was difficult to live with, he'd never felt more wrong about it than now. It was as if the detective had just forgotten about it, and, to be fair, chance was high he'd honestly just deleted it all.  
Whatever it was, they went on solving crimes together.  
  
One particularly memorable one, had them running after yet another serial killer. There had been 3 victims. 3 teenage girls killed within 3 weeks. Each one was killed inside a room, that had been locked from the inside, windows closed. Sherlock scanned the latest crime scene, to which Lestrade had finally called him.  
“The girl was an athlete with a habit of chewing gum. The killer placed the rope inside her mouth for her to hang on to for as long as she could, so he could escape in the meantime and get an alibi for the time of death.”  
  
“Hang on! What?!” Lestrade said with his usual burst of intelligence.  
  
John chipped in. “There's fibres from the rope stuck between her teeth. She must have bitten hard on it.”  
  
“Which is what tells us about her habit of chewing gum, yes. She had a strong jar and could hold herself up for quite a while. In the end, it was likely the pain that made her let go, not the exhaustion. And once she'd let go, she couldn't go back.”  
  
“But how did the murderer get out? The door was locked from the inside.”  
  
Sherlock strode over to the door at that. “Scratches.” he pointed to show the DI and John. “He used a thin wedge. The door opens out to the hallway, not in to the room, so he locked the door before he left, using a wedge to push in the bolt and glide the door along the thinning wedge fall into the lock after it had already been turned. The only mistake he made: he was too rough and damaged the paint on the frame.”  
  
“Brilliant!” John remarked, the logic, as always, just falling into place easily.  
  
The edge of Sherlock's lip curled up in a satisfied smile. Lestrade wasn't quite as pleased. “So we know _how_ he did it, but we still have nothing on who it was..”  
  
“Oh, I wouldn't be so sure.” Sherlock exhaled. “A woman of her height and build? He must be rather strong to lift and hang her up like this. Also at least as tall as she is, as the only thing he could have stepped on in this room was that stool laying on the floor because the only dents in the carpet are those of said stool and that is barely high enough for her to have stood on and touched the ceiling. It must also be someone with particular knowledge of this part of the city. How else would he have know about this unused room _and_ have a key to it. So either raised here or lived here for a while. You will have to show me the other crime scenes for more information on him.”  
  
And Greg did. Sherlock was able to provide brown hair and Turkish roots from the first crime scene and the second revealed that he'd been to a known drug den just before he'd killed his second victim because of a shoe print, apparently. John didn't really get it and Sherlock didn't show any intention in explaining it to them any further.  
Fact, however, was, that they were chasing Efkan Cetin through London by the end of the day, having just surprised him before he'd managed to kill his fourth victim. Unfortunately, the chase ended with John pulling Sherlock out of the Thames, but he'd informed Greg about their killer swimming downstream so they would be catching him along the way.  
  
“Are you crazy?!” John yelled at Sherlock, who was laying on his back on the moody river bank. John looked at his pale skin a blue-tinged lips.  
  
“He hit me on the head, I couldn't really do much for a moment. It was a very precise hit.” Sherlock replied, calm as ever.  
  
John could tell from the way his head swayed, that Sherlock must still have been quite dizzy. John's voice lowered into the tone of a petulant child as he flopped onto his back next to his mad friend. “Don't just go jumping after him, then. You knew he was stronger than you.” Sherlock didn't reply. John turned his head to look over at him. “You could have drowned there.”  
  
Sherlock, the bastard, smiled as he returned John look. “You were there.”  
  
Despite the cold, John felt himself blush. “I could have drowned, too..”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Idiot.”  
  
Sherlock chuckled his deep, dark chuckle and John did. He did drown. In the sound of it. He turned his head back to look up at the darkening sky. “We need to get dry and warm.”  
  
“Yeah.” John agreed and, after a moment, got up and stretched his hand out for Sherlock to take. The younger man took it.  
Neither cab nor tube were an option, soaked and muddy as they were, so they walked back to Baker Street. It took them a good long while and when they arrived, Sherlock was first to occupy the shower. John, meanwhile, prepared some tea to warm them up from the inside and Sherlock took his gladly when he left the bathroom to John.  
They sat and drank in silence for a while after. At some point, John must have fallen asleep because Sherlock shook him awake and told him to go to bed and that he'd be doing the same.  
  
That next morning, John woke to his own sneezing. Dread immediately settled in his bone. He swung himself out of his bed, put on some pants and a t-shirt before making his way downstairs. Sherlock was already awake, leaning over his microscope. John greeted him with an unceremonious “mornin'” and set to brewing some fresh tea.  
To his surprise, Sherlock tore his eyes away from whatever he was studying and turned around “Tea? What happened to coffee?” he asked, obviously confused.  
  
“Oh, you want coffee? Sorry.” John replied, setting to make some coffee for Sherlock as well. He was right, usually they drank coffee in the morning together, but with the prospect of a cold on John's part, the doctor decided to try and kill the thing before it really broke out or, considering the absence of an immune system and that the illness was probably already going strong if the sneezing had begun mere hours after he'd bathed in the cold Thames water, at least keeping it low for as long as possible.  
  
Sherlock frowned at him, sceptical, but said nothing more. “Do you work today?” he asked, acknowledging his coffee with a little nod as it was placed beside his hand and went back to working on his slides.  
  
John took his tea and the newspaper into the living room, flopping down on his chair. “No, it's my day off. Why? Have any plans?”  
  
“Not yet.” came the simple reply, followed by a companionable quiet that was very customary to them.  
John cleared his throat every once in a while between turning over pages. The hot tea did feel nice and smoothing to his throat. Eventually, Sherlock sat down across from him, his cup of coffee refilled, the can being placed on the small table between them. John looked up at it and briefly smiled at Sherlock in gratitude, but focussing his eyes back on the paper soon enough.  
“Anything?” Sherlock asked taking a sip of his coffee.  
  
“Break-in at a bakery, another text on climate change like we didn't know already, celebrities, celebrities and relationships, David Cameron as if you even knew who that is..”  
  
“Yes, anything _interesting_?” Sherlock added to his question.  
  
“Crosswords puzzle?” John asked with a smirk. The look it earned him from his flatmate said all he had anticipated. “I wouldn't say so, no.”  
  
Sherlock frowned disapprovingly. “Then why are you still reading?!”  
  
“Just because it's not interesting to you, doesn't mean it also isn't interesting to me.”  
  
“It's not!”  
  
“Yeah, well, it's still good to know.” John gave up reading, slamming the paper down into his lap in resignation. Sherlock was right, of course, it didn't really interest John. News never changed even after a hundred years.  
  
“Really, John. You have very limited capacity, you shouldn't waste the space by filling it with trivia and the likes.”  
  
John knew Sherlock meant it in a caring way, so he smirked instead of being offended. “Thanks.”  
  
Sherlock, oblivious as ever, offered a nonchalant “you're welcome” hand waving dismissively. John sneezed suddenly and Sherlock looked at him a little startled. “Getting ill, doctor?”  
  
“Ya.” John said in a clipped tone, rubbing his nose.  
  
The brunet leaned back in his armchair with amusement written across his face. “Shouldn't go swimming in the Thames at this time of the year.” he advised.  
  
John's eyebrow twitched up at the mocking tone. “Thanks. I'll just leave you in next time.” he agreed.  
  
“Hm, I seem fine.” the detective argued, sipping at his coffee again.  
  
John pointed a finger at him, reaching for his tea. “For now.” he said, like a bet.  
Sherlock shrugged. No new cases came in and they spent the day lazy in the flat, John doing what he could to keep Sherlock entertained until he was off to bed again.  
  
The following morning, John felt like a wreck. The very first thing he did was calling in ill to work. He wouldn't usually mind working ill, but this cold had taken him so quick and so bad, he barely made it downstairs without falling. He decided to take a break on the sofa instead of going straight for the kitchen, causing an irritated Sherlock to approach him from there. Sherlock's nose had a light touch of red to it and his eyes looked tired. John had been right; Sherlock had caught it, too. “What are you doing?” the brunet asked, confused by his flatmate's unusual behaviour.  
  
“I'm just a bit dizzy.” John answered in a nasal voice.  
  
Sherlock scoffed at that. “Don't be so dramatic. It's just a cold- oh.. I, er.. I forgot.” apparently the detective suddenly remembered and his tone was tinged apologetically.  
  
John waved it off. “It's fine. Wouldn't expect anyone to think the common cold deadly in this day and age.”  
  
“How are you feeling?” Sherlock asked, ignoring the last statement. He moved over to the sofa and sat down beside John.  
  
The blond considered lying, but it wouldn't do much for either of them and, hearing the rush of blood and Sherlock's heart beat so quickly next to him, he decided that trying to play it off was not really going to help. Sherlock really seemed to care for him. “Yeah, not so great..” he answered, avoiding Sherlock's gaze with his own glassy, red eyes.  
A second later, Sherlock's pale forearm was right in front of John's face and the question “will it hurt?” in his ear.  
“What? Will what hurt?” John asked, taken entirely off-guard. Sherlock said nothing but simply inched his arm closer to John's face, holding his stare steadily. “Wha?! No! Sherlock, what're you thinking?!”  
  
“Lestrade texted me. He's got another case. Can't have you dying on the way there from a _cold_.”  
  
“I'm not gonna bite you!” John retorted angrily, though it made his head swim.  
  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him in challenge. “Then I'll cut it open. Although I am fairly sure that I'd lose a lot more blood that way.” For demonstration, he moved to get up.  
  
John caught his arm. “Arlight! Alright. It _will_ hurt, though.” he warned, but Sherlock's face was unmoved. After a moment of uncertain staring, John moved his head forward, opened his mouth to give his fangs space to grow and, hesitantly, pierced the seemingly translucent skin on the inside of Sherlock's wrist. It was a good spot. Barely any puncturing was needed to get blood to flow out in little beads. The pain was minimal. John reluctantly licked at the punctured wounds. It was an awkward thing to do on his friend, but, simultaneously, it felt amazing. He hadn't tasted much blood in his life, always careful to stay healthy, but he remembered each one very clearly.  
Maybe it was because Sherlock was doing this voluntarily, his blood wasn't flooded with adrenalin and other hormones that marked the fear of a victim, but he definitely tasted a lot better than any of the others that John had taken advantage of. Drinking from Sherlock like this felt, in fact, nearly ecstatic and he felt his eyes fall closed.  
Sherlock watched him with great interest. When John's head sank back against the cushions, the brunet cupped the back of it with his free hand, lowering it slowly, making sure the contact to his wrist didn't break.  
John's tongue continued to dab at and lap over the little holes even as his jaw went slack around the wrist, coating it in moist warmth. Sherlock felt his heart beat picking up again and a strange euphoria crawled up his back. He was weirdly disappointed when John pulled his head away, licking his lips habitually and sighing a little when he tasted the blood still on them.  
Sherlock watched his face as John seemingly collected his thoughts. His pupils were blown wide. Sherlock thought it incredibly attractive. With the dishevelled hair and faster breathing, John looked to him like pure sex. “Coffee or tea?” he found himself asking.  
  
John looked at him in surprise. “Coffee.” he replied and watched Sherlock make his way back into the kitchen.  
  
The brunet pulled out John's favourite mug from the cabinet, pouring the already brewed, but still hot coffee into it. He regarded his wrist. It wasn't a thought he'd never had before, but it had certainly been the first time he'd felt comfortable thinking it in such close proximity to the other. Was that what it would fell like to be turned? Euphoric? Amorous, even? Strange, for sure.  
He pushed the thoughts away and brought John his coffee, who thanked him, naturally. “Let me know when you're ready to go. I'll be in the kitchen.”  
John should have guessed, that when he was going to tell Sherlock he was ready, that Sherlock would be busy analysing his own blood. John smiled.  
  
It went as usual after that day. For months they continued doing their stuff, with no further mention of what had happened. That was, until John found himself hospitalised by a bullet in his side.  
They had miscounted, missed one member of the group and John took the gun shot for it.  
They were taking him with their ambulance. Sherlock hadn't been allowed to drive with them, so he'd promised to follow in a cab.  
Between the blood bubbling out from where his broken rip lay and the noises and the smells, John passed out on the way to the hospital. When he woke up again, he was high on painkillers and Sherlock was in his room. In the middle of the night. That wasn't allowed, right.  
“John. John, come on, you need to get out of here. They've taken the bullet out. But we need to get you home before they find out.”  
  
John groaned at mention of movement. He felt dizzy and his upper body clearly wasn't ready to bend. He heard a beeping that wasn't his heart beat monitor. Sherlock had turned down the dosage. It started dawning on him what Sherlock was talking about. “Oh, crap..” he sighed, moving to climb out of the bed, hissing at the pain he could feel despite the drugs.  
  
“Slow, John!” Sherlock whispered, stopping John once he was sitting on the edge of the bed. He carefully pulled off the equipment attached to his friend and then stabilised him as he stood up. He opened a bag he'd brought with him and helped John dress. “Can you walk?” John hummed a vague reply and leaned heavily against Sherlock as the brunet lad him through the halls of the hospital, sneaking him out undetected. They got a cab back to Baker Street.  
As the effect of the drugs got weaker, John began moaning in pain. Sherlock all but carried him upstairs. He couldn't get John up to the second floor and leaving him on the sofa would be unwise in more than one way, so he took him back into his own bedroom. His bed was big and comfortable and within easy reach of everything. He'd be able to take care of John there.  
As soon as he had John resting against the headboard, face pinched up in pain, he thrust his arm at him pressing it against John's lips. “Bite me!” John protested with a low growl, trying to turn his head away. “Come on, John, you need to drink!”  
  
Sherlock pressed his arm against him more forcefully, trapping John head painfully against the wooden headboard. The blond shoved at it with his own hands. “I need too much! It'll kill you or turn you!” he protested.  
  
“We'll do it in sessions then. Taking steps. It might take longer that way, but it will get you there, right?” Sherlock suggested hastily.  
John regarded him for a moment, wanting to deny him further, but he also didn't want to die. He pulled the limb back towards himself and bit down on the fleshier part halfway up to the elbow, fearing his lack of control over his strength in such a situation. He sighed as he pulled his fangs out, sucking eagerly at Sherlock's arm, who hissed at the deep bite, but didn't complain.  
John drank like a dying man, probably literally, until he could tell that Sherlock wasn't too far off from being re-balanced. He pulled the arm away from himself, wipe over the holes in the skin and then over his mouth.  
Sherlock watched him catch his breath. “How many times will you have to..”  
  
“A couple.” John breathed. “My vitals will begin to fall again once my body's used up all your blood. But we need to wait for your body to detox itself.”  
  
Sherlock nodded. “How long will that take?”  
  
“Around six hours from what I know.”  
  
“Good. Lay down, get some rest. I'll be in the kitchen.”  
  
John chuckled, but lowered himself into the soft pillow. “Because where else would you be.” he smiled, though Sherlock had left the room long ago. It didn't take John long to fall asleep to Sherlock's smells in the bedsheets.  
He vaguely felt the mattress dip beside him before a pair of strong hands shook him into consciousness. John yawned heartily before looking up and over at Sherlock. “ Mornin'.” he greeted sleepily. He certainly felt better now than when he'd fallen asleep and Sherlock seemed fine as well. Maybe this was a plan that could actually work out fine.  
  
“It's nearly 11am, I thought I might tempt you with a bite now.” Sherlock said, mild amusement on his face.  
  
John clutched his side as he sat up. “Did you just...?” he half-asked with a disbelieving grin. He shook his head in fond exasperation. “And here I thought you were reasonably sensible.”  
  
“Well, you thought wrong.” Sherlock retorted in his deep voice, stretching out his arm. It was the left one, which he'd bitten the very first time a couple months ago. It hadn't left any scars, which he was glad about. He was sure the same couldn't be said about what he'd done to Sherlock's right arm the night before. Still, the wrist was a very sensitive area, so he didn't want to bite it again, not when requiring such a large amount of blood. Instead, he went for the fleshier forearm again, but a lot more carefully that last time. His eyes fell closed as the warm, iron taste touched his tongue and streamed into his mouth slowly. He occasionally sucked at the wounds to get a momentary rush of it to flood his mouth. He could hear Sherlock's pulse pick up, felt it beneath his lips.  
God, it felt fantastic. He nearly forgot himself over it.  
He eventually pulled away, licked the limb clean in one swipe of his tongue and cleaned his own lips as well before speaking again. “I should be cooking lunch. We still need to eat.”  
  
“All taken care of. I asked Mrs Hudson to cook for us so I could take care of you.” Sherlock explained, pushing back the duvet to take a look at John's bandages.  
  
John watched and allowed Sherlock to change the old ones. “She knows I'm here?”  
  
“Yes. I told her it wasn't that bad and that they ordered a few days bed rest and you'd be back to normal.” Sherlock explained in an even voice. John just hummed his understanding. “I figured you should be on the main floor of the flat while you recover and maybe not within eyeshot of the entrance in case she or someone else comes in at an... impractical time.” he said further, smirking a little and looking up as he peeled away the gauze from John's wound.  
  
“Yeah, that's probably for the best.” the blond agreed inspecting the healing process.  
  
“Looks good. Doesn't seem to be infected and is healing rather nicely.” Sherlock assessed.  
  
“Hm.” John hummed in confirmation. “Will leave one hell of a scar, though. Again.” he complained. He prodded around the area with three fingers. “Bone's coming along nicely, too. Bullet went right through it, but it feels stable...”  
  
“Should I put a new bandage on it or leave it open?”  
  
John considered that for a second. “Nah, it's not that far yet. I think it's better off compressed a little longer.” With that, Sherlock got up from the bed and went straight next door to get the medicine kit. Back in the room, he followed John's instructions until he was all patched up again.  
  
“Sherlock!” Mrs Hudson's voice called up not long after. “Are you ready for lunch yet?”  
  
Sherlock took a quick look at John, clearly determining whether John wanted to eat. “Yes, you can bring it up!” he shouted, climbing off the bed again to take the food off their landlady.  
  
“How is he doing then?” John could hear the elder woman whisper curiously.  
  
“He's doing well. Shouldn't be too long.”  
  
“And what about you?”  
  
“Me? I'm fine.” There was confusion obvious in Sherlock's voice.  
  
“It's so nice how you're taking care of him. You can be such a good man sometimes.”  
  
John could practically hear Sherlock roll his eyes along with the, mildly disgusted, sigh. There was some noise in the kitchen and when it stopped, the detective returned to the room with two plates of steaming lunch. Sherlock himself sat down in the chair by his small desk while John was urged to remain in bed. They ate in silence and John began to wonder.  
They'd never been this close before. Sure, they were getting on surprisingly well, but all this, Sherlock caring for him – it had only really started when John had fallen ill, after he'd told Sherlock about what he was. Was he just an experiment now? Interesting on a scientific level? But then what about the recurring fact of Sherlock's pulse picking up whenever they were physically close to each other? That had started well before John had told him. He'd been hearing it since about after his second conversation with Mycroft and it had started as a mere irregular beating every other moment. Now it was an entire marathon being run inside the man. Not that John didn't react similarly. It made him very happy to hear the quick, strong rhythm whenever he could. And the way Sherlock looked at him when he drank from him. John had his eyes closed most of the time, but the atmosphere was just so intimate, so unlike anything he'd experienced before. When he was turned, it was crude, brutal and unwanted. It had been the first and the last time he'd been bitten and it had certainly not been the vampire's intention. He'd felt no intimacy in that and neither had he when he'd drunken others' blood to save his life.  
So maybe this sudden interest wasn't him being an experiment. Maybe John's openness, telling Sherlock the truth, had created a sort of trust that hadn't been there before.  
Then again, it had been the night that Moriarty had nearly taken both their lives. Surely that's something to bond over, too, right?  
In any case, John enjoyed it and so long as Sherlock wouldn't just be bored with him one day, he had no objections.  
  
The following 5 hours were spent on the bed together. Sherlock had brought John his laptop and the brunet sat next to him, tapping away at his mobile, clearly ordering Greg around to get the last of the gang they'd been following and who'd shot John in the end. When he was done with that, he just retreated into his mind palace, laying there, in silence, like a dead man.  
Occasionally, John had to actually look up from where he was writing up the case on his blog and held his fingertips under Sherlock's nose to see if he was really still breathing. Almost like clockwork, Sherlock came back six hours and five minutes after the last feeding and, checking the time on his mobile, moved John's laptop out of the way and offered his left arm again. John didn't want to reopen the last wounds now either, seeing as they were healing rather well and he wanted to prevent scarring where he could, so his eyes wandered up the limb. He took a sad note of the inside of Sherlock's elbow, many little scars from needles leaving reminders of the past. It wasn't a past John shared, though, so he moved on without a word. He bit Sherlock's upper arm this time, making sure he didn't harm either of the two muscles there.  
He drank slowly, taking his time and being extra neat with giving as little of his saliva into Sherlock's bloodstream. Sucking at the flesh, Sherlock moaned a little and his arms circled his head and shoulders without causing the wound to shift away from John's mouth. John, likewise, slung an arm around Sherlock's waist, grabbing the one he was drinking from with his free hand and supporting it gently.  
After a while, the younger man used his right hand to cup John's chin and turn his head towards him, only to capture his lips in a slow, searing, open-mouthed kiss. Tasting his own blood on John's lips only seemed to encourage him and John let him stick his tongue into his mouth, where they danced for a while until John had to pull back a minute later. He licked his lips, looking over Sherlock's body, knowing the man understood why he'd stopped. The look in Sherlock's eyes, however, was absolutely priceless, his usually so bright and pale eyes dominated by large, black pupils. John pecked his cheek because he couldn't not do it.

 

 

“You were shot. In Afghanistan. You said you never bit someone before, so how did you recover?” Sherlock suddenly asked where he sat, leaning against John.  
  
John sat straighter at that, sighing a little as he remembered. “I never bit anyone before, that is still true. I drank the blood of one of my dying mates. As you can probably tell, the bullet had went right through my shoulder, so I didn't have to pull it out. He was already taking his last breaths, I could hear it, so I.. lapped at his open wounds until I had the the balance of a newly turned and just passed out. When I woke up, my wound was already healed, but with my leg and my hand, they sent me home as invalided. God, his face still haunts me.” He had his head hanging, eyes closed to keep the images out. It didn't help. That young soldier was still looking at him like he was seeing ghosts, monsters.  
Sherlock, meanwhile let his fingers glide over the scar on the front of John shoulder. He was right, when Sherlock had changed his bandages, he had noted the second scar on John's back that perfectly mirrored the first. The brunet leaned over and placed a little kiss on the skin.  
John looked at him in wonder. “You're quite the cuddler.” he remarked with a fond smile.  
  
Sherlock hummed. “Mummy used to say that as well.”  
  
“Hey, I'm not your mother!” John reminded jokingly.  
  
Sherlock sat up and looked at John with a very unholy expression. “Most definitely not.”  
  
John gave a crooked, half-dirty smile back. “What's caught your interest in me so suddenly?”  
  
“I'm not sure.” Sherlock answered, mouth lowering John's shoulder again, from where he started kissing his way to the doctor's neck. “I've always been interested in you.” He threw his mobile onto the other side of the bed and moved to straddle John's lap. The blond gave a small “woah” at the sudden attack, but was otherwise very okay with the turn of events. Sherlock continued kissing his neck and throat, working in little nibbles and sucks. John breathing became laboured under the attention and he could feel, not for the first time in these last 24 hours, how his cock responded to his arousal. “I've never felt any of this before.” Sherlock's deep voice rumbled against his throat and chest, sending a pleasant shiver through him. “I've never wanted someone like this before. I can't remember the last time I was actually aroused.” John could confirm that he was definitely aroused now, if the hardness rubbing against him was any indication.  
  
“Are you high?!” John had to ask eventually.  
  
Sherlock broke away. “Oh!” he exclaimed, looking as if the entire world had just gotten a meaning to him. “John! Fantastic! As ever my unrivalled conductor of light! I am indeed high, just not on drugs! I've felt it the first time you bit me, too. A sudden rush of luck and happiness. John you're making me high on endorphins! I saw it in my blood samples when I analysed them after you'd bitten me that day. That's been making me feel so ecstatic.” the brunet eagerly explained.  
  
John looked up at him a little taken aback. He didn't know that was actually a thing. “And I thought you just liked me a lot. Well, I won't complain..”  
  
Sherlock mirrored his cheeky grin. “Like with any drug, I'll get used to it eventually and it won't have as grave an effect on me. That doesn't mean I'm not interested in exploring what else this new drug can do for me.” he whispered the last part into John's ear. The older man grabbed Sherlock by the waist. “It's been five and a half hours. Surely that's good enough to get another fix, hm?”

 

**Author's Note:**

> So, yeah. Hope that was acceptable for now.  
> No worries, smut incoming!
> 
> It just really bit me (haha, get it), that it's kind of always Sherlock who'd the "special one". I wanted Vamp!John, though. I love giving John credit. John is special.  
> Right after Mycroft, John is love. John is life.


End file.
